


They Laughed at Me Wanting You

by Werelibrarian



Category: Daredevil (TV), Shall We Dance (1937), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ballroom Dancing, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Press and Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werelibrarian/pseuds/Werelibrarian
Summary: Gazing at Matt Murdock on the silver screen is like falling in love, Foggy thinks; meeting the famous dancer in person is more like getting a poke in the eye.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A speed-writing exercise written from a prompt, please proceed with caution.

If Karen Page hadn't given up dancing to fight crime, Foggy Nelson would still be a single man. 

In 1938, he and Karen have a good life. They're the most beautiful and beloved ballroom dancers in New York City. Sunny, smiling and blonde, they're the toast of the town, and on the night of Karen's last dance, there's toasts a-plenty. Hanging off to the side of the ballroom is a big man with a squashed nose who's holding his squashed cap in his hand. Frank Castle, Karen's fiancé and partner in muck-racking journalism. There's a depression on, after all, and there are things happening to the devastated population of New York. Corrugated iron shacks turning abandoned streets and sections of Central Park into cities of homeless, desperate and rife for exploitation. People disappear from these Hoovervilles on the steady, and if Karen and Frank don't have the power to stop it at least they're going to let the world know it's happening and why.

Foggy and Karen have danced in the finest nightclubs and auditoriums in the city, but they can't afford the eats there, so Foggy treats them to dinner at a diner down by the picture house. 

They're in love and hard to watch, Foggy thinks, and when they catch him smiling soppily at them, they insist that they'll find him someone. 

"Oh don't worry about me," Foggy laughs, "I'm already in love. But not with anyone who's gonna look at me like that." 

Karen demands to know who this person is, and possibly she offers to slap them across the face for rejecting Foggy.

Foggy laughs again, and takes them to the pictures, where they're playing a newsreel of a famous blind ballet dancer, Matt Murdock.

At first, Karen covers her eyes, because Murdock dances nearly naked and this is most certainly not the sort of ballet that comes out of Paris. It's animalistic and muscular; Murdock claws at the air and strains against himself as he dances. When he leaps, he pushes the ground away like he hates it and makes impossible shapes with his body mid-flight. He runs his hands over his own rippling muscles and it's nearly obscene.  

"Is that legal?" Frank mutters, peering between his fingers.

"It's modern," Foggy says, eyes glued to the screen. "Isn't it spectacular?"

"Well I understand why you're in love, I suppose," Karen says drily. Frank makes a grudgingly agreeing noise.

***

Gazing at Matt Murdock on the silver screen is like falling in love, Foggy thinks; meeting the man himself is like getting a poke in the eye.

Maybe Foggy could blame his tongue, which was trailing on the floor between his feet as he watched Murdock train with Luke Cage, the premier black modern dancer in New York. Cage is teaching him some step that seems more suited to the bedroom than the dance floor, and Murdock learns it by draping himself all over Cage and mirroring the movement of his limbs. Even though the pair of them are ringed with an audience--students and corps de ballet-types and the occasional groupie who actually call Matt "maestro"--Foggy feels like he's witnessed something achingly intimate.

"Mr. Murdock," Foggy says, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers when the lesson is over. "I'm Foggy Nelson, I'm...I have such huge respect for your art."

"I don't do autographs," Murdock says, wiping his neck. Foggy feels his smile curdle on his face.

"I wasn't… I'm not a fan. I mean, of course I'm a fan, but. Sorry. I'm taking the studio next door," he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, "and thought I'd introduce myself."

"Well well well, Foggy Nelson," someone says, and suddenly he's engulfed in an enormous perspiration-scented hug.

"Looking good, Luke," Foggy says, as Murdock's face goes even more sour.

"Matt, you should shake the man's hand, he's the hardest working ballroom dancer on Broadway."

"Broadway?" Vinegar tastes better than the word in Matt's mouth, it seems.

"Every now and again," Foggy concedes. "I go well with dinner at Delmonico's, I guess."

"You're the only man who went into show business to be modest," Luke says fondly. "His foxtrot is like strawberries and cream, and his waltz is like champagne."

"Oh," Matt sneers. "A music-box dancer."

Foggy isn't going to slap his future husband across his smug face. He simply isn't. So he just smiles real big (he's a ballroom dancer, he's got practice) and says, "it's a different style, that's all. I can't do what you and handsome Luke here do, and you can't do what I do."

Matt sips his water and raises his eyebrows. "I can do what you do."

"Are you sure? Because--"

"I'm sure," Matt says, and suddenly, the studio is pulsing with the sticky, sweaty rhythm of a tango (Luke standing by the gramophone, grinning behind his hand) and Matt's arms are around him.

The tango isn't Foggy's favourite, but it's hard not to get swept up in it. The mirrors are whirling past his eyes and Matt's hands are strong and irresistible as they move all over his body.

It's _terrible_.

"You move like an ironing board!" Matt accuses, when they break apart angrily.

"You steer like I'm a tugboat!" Foggy shoots back.

"What happened to strawberries and cream?"

Foggy waves a bewildered hand. "That's the foxtrot, Mr. Murdock, not this--foreplay."

"Oh, so you're not a bad dancer, just a prissy one," Matt says with a mean slant to his grin.

Like Foggy said. Just like a poke in the eye.

***

Foggy takes the backstairs at the studio so he doesn't run into Matt, during weeks and weeks of trying out new partners to replace Karen.

Too bad 10th Avenue in Hell's Kitchen doesn't have back stairs, because that's exactly where they run into each other. Repeatedly. It's a real pity Matt's a jerk, Foggy thinks, because he's gorgeous and funny when he wants to be and Foggy's still a bit in love, underneath a thick layer of irritation and rejection.

Late one night, when the small talk has lead to slightly bigger talk and they realize they've been standing on the sidewalk together for a good twenty minutes, both their stomachs growl in unison.

Matt says "look, do you want to go eat?" and Foggy nods because his voice abandons him. And then he has to cough about six times and tell Matt that he nodded.

They have pancakes at one in the morning, Foggy medicating the embarrassment of the botched performance he gave earlier that night with useless carbohydrates.

"It's just teething pain--new partners getting to know each other and all that," Foggy sighs. 

"I don't know, Foggy, she kicked you where the sun doesn't shine." Matt says, eyebrows arched and sympathetic. "Dance partners are like a marriage, Foggy, it's all about trust. Divorce her, and find someone you can really dance with."

"You're a soloist," Foggy says, blushing hard and swigging coffee to hide it. "What would you know?"

"Maybe I just never met a person I could trust like that."

"The way you dance, though--you have chemistry with air. Putting another body near you, we'd need the fire department."

"That's sweet," Matt says, smiling a little as he shovels in pancake. "Tell me more."

Foggy gets up to buy dessert, and when he comes back to the table with two slices of pie, he sees Matt's feet moving under the table.

"Isn't tap-dancing a little music-box for you, maestro?" Foggy says, placing the strawberry in front of Matt and keeping the lemon meringue for himself.

"My dad sent me to tap lessons when I asked for boxing lessons." Matt says, digging into the pie and reddening his lips even more. "It still pops up from time to time."

Under the table, Matt does a sassy little paradiddle. Foggy echoes it and throws an extra riff on the end. "My dad wanted me to wrestle. I wanted tap classes instead," he admits.

Matt laughs and Foggy grins around the tines of his fork. This is so much nicer than being called a bad dancer.

And on top of that, he loves lemon meringue. 

***

Foggy holds up a hand to the kid Matt has stationed at the door to his studio. "Don't say anything, I know the maestro is working but I need to talk to Matt right now."

Matt's dancing almost naked today, and his body is literally glistening, but it's an emergency and Foggy only spends oh, ten or fifteen seconds staring.

"Look at this," Foggy holds up a copy of a gossip rag. Matt's eyebrows go very, _very_ judgemental. "Sorry. Shit, sorry, I'm extremely agitated. Someone took photographs of us last night."

"At the automat?"

"‘ _Worlds Collide in Dance! And in Love?_ '" Foggy quotes.

"It was just pancakes!"

"‘Our reporter overheard the pair of respected dancers, beloved by ballroom and ballet enthusiasts alike, laughing and speaking wistfully of marriage. The term "hearts in their eyes" would not have been an inappropriate description. Could it be that the stars of stage and screens are secretly married?'"

Matt's hands go over his face. "Oh dear lord."

"Uh, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Murdock?" one of the studio receptionists knocks hesitantly on the door. "You may want to look outside."

"What is it with you people today?" Matt huffs, but lets Foggy lead him to the window.

"Oh no," Foggy says, peering out.

"What is it?"

"Reporters, Matt. Lots of them, and they don't look like arts critics," Foggy said darkly. "Wait, where are you going?"

"To yell at some reporters."

***

As Alexandra replaces the announcer's microphone and cedes the spotlight to Matt, Foggy learns that ballet does not sufficiently train a person to smile when it feels like the world is crashing down around him.

Sure, she owns the nightclub and it's her party, but what the hell was she thinking, all but forcing Matt to perform impromptu, on a stage he's never even set foot on. She has no idea how much work he puts into his seemingly effortless performances--memorizing the shape and size of the space--all the potential disasters that sighted dancers don't ever need to think about, averted with practice and planning and care and raw refusal to back down. 

Matt looks uncomfortable and trapped up there on stage in his buttoned-up tuxedo, and tugs at his tie as he confers awkwardly with the bandleader. From the tightness of both their faces, it's going poorly.

Foggy's on his feet and on the stage before he knows what he's doing. "Danny," he hisses at the bandleader. "Give us a standard, not too fast."

"You got it, Foggy," Danny says, voice relieved, and strikes up [_They All Laughed_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSfdq3fpOSk). 

The audience applauds as Foggy takes Matt by the hand and leads him to centre stage, and it gives Foggy cover to whisper a desperate "trust me" to Matt. The nod he gets back is hesitant but the squeeze of his fingers is firm.

Breathing deeply, Foggy starts to tap. 

It's beginner stuff: every toe is crisp and every stomp is easy to hear, and after no more than two bars, Matt's body is answering Foggy's rhythm. It's travelling along his arm and through their joined hands and then Matt's dancing, matching him step for step.

"Take the lead," Foggy whispers, "don't worry, I'll keep you safe," and then Matt's arms are around him and they're spinning and circling around the floor, their feet flashing and their steps perfectly in sync, and it's exhilarating. It's astonishing.

And when they pull off a showy bit of choreography that _only_ the most in-tune, synchronized, intimately-connected dancers _should_ be able to pull off, the applause is simply deafening.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't always know how to say thank you," Matt said, hiding somewhat behind the ice cream cone Foggy bought him from a 42nd street vendor. Foggy waited for the next part, but apparently that was all that was coming.

"You could blush a little harder, that'd be enough," Foggy said, grinning.

Matt complied, and Foggy covered his bursting heart with a loud laugh.

"Nice night for a laugh, boys," came a low voice, and suddenly, Foggy couldn't take his eyes off the streetlamp bouncing off a bright white knife. “Give us your wallet, handsome."

Behind the mugger, three other guys look at them hungrily.

There's brave, and there's stupid, and then there's ballet dancers, apparently, because Matt holds his wallet meekly, and when the mugger steps close to take it, plunges his ice-cream cone right in the big guy's eye. His hand goes hard around Foggy's wrist and then they're running, Matt's cane sweeping the pavement ahead of him frantically.

"This way!" Foggy yells, and crowds Matt into a doorway, the palms of his hands hitting wall on either side of Matt's shoulders. He's praying the scaffolding blocking the streetlamps will melt his dark coat into all the other shadows. In the middle of the road, the muggers turn frustrated circles and blame each other for losing them.

For a long time, even after Foggy can no longer hear the bootheels of the muggers, the don't move.

"Are--" Matt's breath tickles Foggy's lips. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Foggy whispers back. "That was remarkably stupid of you, Matt."

"Got him, didn't I?"

"He could have killed you."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure."

"Foggy," Matt breathes.

"Yeah?" He can't stop staring at Matt's mouth.

"If you stand this close for much longer, you might have to marry me."

"According to the papers, I already did." Foggy says weakly, because Matt's not pushing him, and he doesn't think he can make himself pull away. 

"Then what kind of bum are you, never once kissing his husband? Mr. Nelson, what _would_ the papers say?"

"They'd say, given what you wear, who needs a wedding night," Foggy says, and when Matt laughs softly it brushes their noses together.

"Are you calling me easy?"

Foggy smirks, and Matt's breath tangles on the wet inner surface of his lip. "You saying your sugar ain't free to anyone who watches you dance?"

Matt's eyelashes dip. "Only to some people. Maybe even just one."

"Lucky them," Foggy says. Matt's lips are pursed in an almost-smile, barely an upward tilt but inviting as open arms, and Foggy leans in.

Down the block, a car honks its horn, and the moment spun around them by Foggy's dark coat and Matt's eyelashes and the shadows, it dissolves like sugar in the rain. 

Foggy steps away. "Um," he coughs.

Matt also coughs. Then he smooths his hair down, drags his fingers along Foggy's sleeve ruefully, and takes Foggy's arm with a smile that's only the tiniest bit regretful. "Can I walk you home, Mr. Nelson?"

Foggy pinches his lips between his teeth because his heart is zinging all around his insides like a pinball machine. "Why Mr. Murdock, aren't you a gentleman."

Matt wrinkles his nose, and behind his glasses, he winks. "No."

***

The next morning, Foggy hardly has the alertness to tie the tie of his dressing gown before answering the pounding at the door.

"What does this say?" Matt demands, brandishing the front page of the Times he may have just scooped up from Foggy's doorstep.

"GIANT 'EYE' MOLDED IN CORNING FACTORY; Four Thousand Watch Glass Pouring for Reflector of Greatest Telescope." Foggy reads.

"Oh," Matt says, and shoves the paper into Foggy's hands. "Open the Arts section."

"Matt, it's so early. Not that I don't love to look at your face but what are you doing here?"

"The milkman just congratulated me on my nuptials," Matt says, striding into the apartment and casting about for a chair to sink into dramatically. "Read the paper, Foggy."

Swearing under his breath, Foggy flips through until he sees a familiar jawline. The camera got them damn near head on, Matt's face tipped towards Foggy's and the purse of his lips obvious and lush. Whatever rat took this photograph got close enough that Foggy can see every one of Matt's long eyelashes against the glow of his cheek. "Oh my stars."

"Don't tell me," Matt moans, hand to his forehead, so Foggy starts reading the article that accompanies the photo, crunching the paper between his fingers more tightly with every word. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's in the paper?"

"You just said not to tell you," Foggy says lightly. Matt presses his lips together. Foggy sighs. "It's full of lies, but it's hard to argue with the photo they took of us."

"Where's your telephone?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to yell at an editor."

***

Matt yells. When he hits a certain pitch, Foggy calmly takes the phone out Matt's hand, asks if he's speaking to the person in charge, and proceeds to yell that he's the ringleader of a two-bit paper not fit to wrap fish in!

After that, their picture. Is. Everywhere.

"Mr. Murdock! Mr. Murdock!" Trish Walker's heels click on the pavement, and her pencil scratches at her notepad, "how long have you been married, and what's keeping you from acknowledging this marriage publicly?"

Matt whirls on her. "We're not married! I've told every reporter from here to Yonkers that, why can't you just print the truth?"

Trish smiles sunnily. "What's the truth when you're holding hands in the street?"

Matt's hand tightens around Foggy's arm. Foggy tucks his chin and tries not to smirk.

"He's helpful with crosswalks," Matt barks, stalking away so fast Foggy's dragged along behind.

***

After a few days, they're back at the studio--Matt working on a new piece of choreography that's taut and hypnotic, just like the muscles bunching on the back of his thigh, and Foggy still scouring the city for anyone willing to pair with him--when one of the receptionists knocks on the door jamb of Matt's practice room.

"Mr. Murdock? We just received a telephone call from a police-officer friend of yours, Detective Mahoney?"

Next door, Foggy tugs at his collar, where the sweat is being trapped against his neck by his tie, and he waves the girl he's trying out to take a break while he eavesdrops.

"Yes?" Matt says.

"He says he got a call from an officer who was near your block, and that the press have camped out," the receptionist says with a pained tone of voice. "He says you probably shouldn't go home."

Matt sighs dramatically, and then he's striding into Foggy's practice room with his cane in front of him, the startled receptionist in tow. "Foggy, you can't go home tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"There are reporters at my apartment."

"I heard. Do you need a place to stay?"

"If there's press at my building, there's press at yours. I live across the street from you."

"You do?"

Matt quirks an eyebrow. "How do you think I got to your apartment so quickly that morning?"

Foggy shrugs. "You leap tall buildings in a single grand jété?"

"I was still in my dressing gown."

Foggy nods apologetically to the dancer who's stuffing her shoes in her bag with an insulted expression. It hadn't been going that well, to be perfectly honest, but this is no way for an audition to end. "I remember," he says, a little dreamily. He does. It had gaped quite a bit. "What'll we do?"

Matt shrugs. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"***

"You're out of your mind," Matt sniffs, when Foggy holds out the pair of roller skates, and his fingers feel over the soft, worn leather and scuffed wheels distractedly, before he wipes his hand on his trousers.

Behind Matt, New Yorkers of all types lumber gracelessly around the rink. Arms are windmilling, knees are knocking, children and adults are crashing into each other in tangles of limbs, but everywhere, everywhere there's laughing and Foggy wants to get Matt out there with all his heart and soul.

"Not up the challenge, maestro?" he teases.

The way Matt's lips press together tells Foggy his afternoon is going to be _fun_.

***

One of the attendants at the rink offers to skate in front of Matt to keep obstacles out of his path, and Matt is actually pretty good with wheels on his feet and his cane in front of him. That doesn't mean his heels don't go all the way over his head once or twice, and the third time, Matt sits up, rubs his rear end and growls "I need this for dancing, Foggy, can we do something else now?"

Foggy helps him up and manoeuvres him, rather like a roadcase, over to a park bench.

"Should I apologize for ruining that audition this morning?" Matt says, after a companionable moment of silence.

"No, it was in the toilet already. No one's going to dance with me if they think I'm hiding a secret marriage," Foggy sighs.

"People have started to boo at my newsreels," Matt admits.

On the corner, a newsboy yells a headline about the secret marriage that setting the dance world all ablaze. As Foggy watches, three people buy papers and flip hungrily to the Arts section.

Foggy shakes his head. "We're about the only two people in the world who don't think we're married."

Matt blows a raspberry, hooks he elbows over the back of the bench and leans into the slanting sunlight. "We don't _think_ we're not. We _know_ we're not."

Foggy snorts. "I'm beginning to have my doubts. You haven't seen the pictures, Matt. We might as well be."

"The only difference between us and other married people is that we can't even get a divorce," sighs Matt. "If we could shove a divorce certificate in Trish Walker's face, that'd shut her up."

Foggy makes a commiserating sound.

Slowly, like a monster coming to life, Matt sits up and grabs his arm. "Foggy, you've got to marry me."

Foggy blinks. "Why Matt," he chokes. "This is so sudden."

"No, listen, it’s perfect. If we get married, we can get divorced. We'll have proof, and all this idiocy will disappear."

"Wait a minute. Are you actually suggesting we get married? For real? With rice and paperwork and the whole entire shemozzle?"

Matt blows hair out of his eyes, and the sunset reflects slickly over his glasses. "No, Foggy, I'm suggesting we get divorced. Getting married is just…” he makes a vague gesture. “Step one.”


	3. Chapter 3

"If my dad were alive right now, he'd give me such a hiding for doing this," Matt says dryly, as they kick their feet on a bench at the Marriage Licensing Office

Foggy's hands still in the act of straightening his tie for the twelfth time. "Getting married to a man?"

"No."

"Getting married to a tap dancer?"

Matt grins. "No."

"Then what?"

"Getting married in New Jersey."

Foggy rolls his eyes, and in retaliation takes Matt's hand when the clerk calls their names and doesn't let go of it even when they stand in front of the Justice of the Peace. Matt harrumphs, but the funny thing is, he doesn't even try to shake Foggy off once.

When the JP, a tiny lady in a black robe behind an enormous desk, sees them, she licks a finger and flicks a blank certificate off a stack so that it flutters down perfectly in the centre of her blotter. She looks between them, the nib of her pen held above the first line. "Name of the first party?" she asks.

"Matthew Michael Murdock." The JP hums and writes the name in fine script.

"Name of the second party?"

"Uh, Franklin Percy Nelson."

Matt wrinkles his nose and mouths "Percy?" as the JP trills a quiet, grandmotherly laugh and pens Foggy's full name.

Two ink stamps and a quick trip through an embossing press, and the JP hands them a certificate--completed, legally binding--with murmured congratulations.

Foggy takes Matt's thumb and runs it over the raised letters of the seal, expecting Matt to laugh, or shake his head at the nonsense, but he doesn't expect Matt's cheeks to blanch and his mouth to drop open.

"What's the matter?" Foggy whispers, when Matt seems a little lost for words. He doesn't get an answer other than Matt hastily pulling his hand out of Foggy's and swallowing.

"Ma'am," Matt says. "Just out of curiosity, what are the grounds for divorce in this state?"

The JP peers at him over her tiny glasses. Then she leans forwards with a small smile, like she's sharing a secret. "Marriage," she says.

***

The mist rolls in the cool of the night, swirling around the cars on the deck of the ferry back to Manhattan. Foggy buys Matt a corsage from a passing girl with a tray, and pins it on Matt's lapel with some crack about flowers for the bride. The girl giggles and skips off to the next car, calling out congratulations.

"Well, Matt, tomorrow, we'll be divorced," Foggy says, leaning on the railing at the edge of the deck and trying to sound hearty. "You'll go your way and I'll go mine."

Matt took hold of one of the chains that were strung from the edges of the top deck, and clung, tucking it under his arm and swaying. His body language was shy, but he moved in a way that was almost playful. Maybe it was the way his face gentled into a slightly surprised expression whenever Foggy spoke. "Where will you go?"

"Oh, you know," Foggy said, waving a hand. "Back to bachelor-hood I guess, charming the world on stage and beating off the stage-door johnnies and jennies with a stick."

"Sounds perfect."

"If only I could find a partner to dance with me," Foggy sighs. "I'm this close to sending a telegram to my ex-girlfriend."

"Can she dance?"

"She's a Rockette," Foggy says proudly. Matt whistles.

From one of the shiny new A-Models a few rows back comes the sudden strains of music. When Foggy cranes his head, he sees some people gathered around the open-topped car, listening with wonderment while the driver proudly shows off all the bells and whistles. They shoved a wireless into an automobile, and it plays even in the middle of the Hudson river. Isn't life amazing.

Matt sways against the chain, in time to the [bluesy, brassy ballad](https://youtu.be/uhCXXOhQ4zw), and there's something yearning in the way he leans into the apex of each swing, chest out and shoulders back, like the music keeps pulling on a string connected directly to his heart.

"Careful you don't fall into the river," Foggy says.

"Why don't you stop me?" Matt shoots back, but it's not angry, it's not even irritated--and Foggy's gotten pretty familiar with both of those tones of voice--it's Matt. Waiting to be asked to dance.

"Why don't you come away from the edge?" Foggy asks, and reaches over to take Matt's hand again. In a fluid motion, almost without conscious thought, Matt's other hand goes to Foggy's waist, and they're moving in an easy foxtrot, dodging the cars on the ferry's deck, the mist swirling around their heels. "I thought you don't like partner dances," Foggy accuses softly.

"It's a lot of trust," Matt says, and it's an agreement. "You don't like dances that make you feel like anything less than a gentleman."

Foggy's laugh is only a bit self-deprecating. "I guess I'm just a lights-off, under the covers kind of boy."

"Dancing isn't lovemaking."

"It is when you do it," Foggy quips, then squeezes his eyes shut in mortification. Matt just chuckles and holds him tighter. The singer holds a note, and Matt drags Foggy along the muscled hardness of his frame, making them strain together for a long, throbbing moment before relaxing again into the urbane elegance of the steps.

"It's not like that proved me wrong," Foggy says, when his voice comes back.

Matt chuckles. "It's too bad we can't dance together."

Foggy's heart skips a beat. Probably because Matt doesn't think he's a bad dancer anymore. "We're dancing now."

"You know what I mean. If we appeared together on stage, you know the reporters would eat it up, divorce certificate be damned." Matt whirls them around, and Foggy adjusts their direction a little so Matt doesn't run into a car bumper. Amazingly, Matt takes his correction without complaint. "It's too bad, we could have done some amazing steps together."

"That was terribly suggestive," Foggy chides. This thundering in his chest is probably unhealthy, he thinks, and he's not sure if it's disappointment he'll never dance with Matt again or some sort of heartsick elation that Matt feels something of the same dismay.

In his distraction, Foggy's left toe nicks the instep of Matt's right foot, but instead of throwing them off, they pivot, unthinkingly, and find themselves perfectly aligned for the next figure.

"I have no idea what you mean," Matt says, as they sail through the night, New York gliding closer with every step.

***

Matt hums almost all the way back to Hell's Kitchen, but as they approach the street that separates Matt's apartment building from Foggy's, he goes thoughtful and quiet.

The block is thankfully deserted--even reporters have to go to bed some time, it seems--and the heavy mist off the river veils the streetlamps and makes their bulbs burn with a yellow and gritty light.

Matt stops in the middle of the road and taps his cane against the tip of his shoe, an uncharacteristically unsure movement. "Well, this is me."

"Yeah," Foggy says. "Goodnight, Matt. It's been fun--well. In a way."

"I should thank you for going to the trouble," Matt murmurs, face tipped down, and Foggy again waits, but the actual thank you doesn't materialize. "Of marrying me. And divorcing me."

"Consider it the best thing I ever did as your husband," Foggy says, after only a few seconds of wishing he could comb the droplets of mist out of Matt's dark hair with his fingers. He pats Matt's arm instead. "Well, goodnight."

"Would you like to come up for a drink?" Matt blurts.

Foggy gulps, and he's about to grab Matt's hand and say yes, but something in his breast pocket crinkles. Their marriage certificate, which he's got to take to a divorce lawyer in the morning. "Thanks, but it's a bit past my bedtime."

"A cup of coffee then."

"No," Foggy says, twisting his fingers together. "But thanks."

"Oh," Matt lays both hands on the handle of his cane and nods, almost as if to himself. "Alright then."

"Goodnight, Matt."

"Goodnight, Foggy."

***

Foggy takes the stairs in a two steps forward, one step back sort of daze, until around the third flight up, he realizes he's dancing the foxtrot by himself.

Worse than that, he's humming.

"The way your smile just beams…" he mutters, shaking his head and putting his hand over the marriage certificate in his pocket as he unlocks his door and hangs his hat on the hook.

"Put ’em up, Mister," a hard voice says from the shadows.

Foggy whirls, the doorknob slipping from his hand and banging all the way open. A woman--blonde, brilliant, and legs for days--steps into the light and cocks a finger-gun at him, and her red lips mouth the word "pow."

"Marci? What are you doing here?" Foggy demands, putting a hand over his pounding heart.

"Word on the grapevine is you're looking for a new partner, and since your letter begging me to come back got lost in the mail, I thought I'd let you know that if you apologize nicely enough, I might consider it," she says. Her smile is like a sickle moon and the way she slinks across his sofa is like a snake on a branch.

"Oh, is that so?" Foggy says, grinning and taking off his jacket. "And leave the high-kicking glamour of Radio City?" He's missed her, and going by the way she smolders back at him when he gives her a good once over with his eyes, she's missed him.

"I get better dressing rooms when I dance with you," she says, tart and challenging. "Don't let it go to your head."

Foggy sits down on the sofa next to her and rolls up his sleeves, basking in the laughter in her eyes. "I knew you only wanted me for the show-biz perks," he jokes.

"That's not all I wanted you for," Marci says, and it's good--it feels good, this flirting that's happening just because they want it to, that isn't in the context of pragmatic togetherness.

"You weren't sneaky about that, you know."

Her eyes flick and then she leans close enough to kiss. "Foggy."

"Yes?"

"There's a man in your doorway."

Foggy's head whips around for the second time that night. The light from the corridor frames Matt, the silk dressing gown thrown over the shirt and trousers he wore at their wedding gleaming gently at the shoulders. By his side, a teacup dangles from one finger, as if he'd actually planned to try the old trick of coming over to borrow a cup of sugar. He isn't wearing his glasses and his face…

Maybe if Foggy'd known him another ten years he'd be able to read the eloquence of that blank, ungiving expression. But since he doesn't, it just looks hurt.

Matt turns on his heel and throws himself out the open door.


	4. Chapter 4

"Matt! Wait!" Foggy leaps up, and just catches Matt's silk-covered elbow with his fingers. When he coaxes Matt around, he finds himself staring into the mirrored red disks of his glasses and an expressionless face. Steeling himself, he loops his arm through Matt's, friendly and truthful like, and firmly shuts the apartment door behind them.

He gestures, a bit uselessly, at Marci. "This is, uh. This is Marci Stahl. Marci, this is my…" he looks at the cracked ceiling for guidance. It gives none. "My husband. Matt Murdock."

"How do you do," Marci says, and she does something to her words that makes it clear that she hasn't been sitting primly with her knees pressed together. Even her vowels can lounge.

"Why Foggy," Matt says, "why've you been so secretive about this one?"

"Actually, I mentioned her earlier tonight," Foggy says, his voice trailing off as Matt's face goes even a little stiller.

"Miss Stahl is your ex?"

Foggy nods. "Ex-girlfriend."

"Ex-dance partner," Marci says. "We were the biggest thing going, before Nelson and Page."

"It's the first I'm hearing of that," Matt sniffs, and Foggy does have to hand it to him, that pleasant little smile on his face must have been trained in mountaineering by Scott of the Antarctic, the way it manages to hang on despite the ice in Matt's voice.

"Oh," Foggy says, wheezing only a bit, "I didn't think you'd be interested."

Matt tips his head a little. "Oh I don't know, I imagine Miss Stahl is quite charming. When you get to know her."

"Oh, she is," Foggy starts to assure him, then puts his hand over his face. He's spent his whole life as a professional dancer, and there still are days he finds himself naive as a boy in their presence.

"I know you, I've seen your picture in the papers," Marci says, turning her narrow, perpetually amused gaze on Matt. "Is it true that you're married?"

Foggy tries to step in here before something really scary happens, but Matt just twists his mouth up in something like a happy smile and says, "Oh yes, it's completely true. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Marci says lightly, and Foggy is reminded viscerally of two cats circling each other "But I do think it'd be awfully convenient if you would divorced him."

"No," Matt says quickly. "I'm sure I'll never divorce him."

Foggy blinks.

There's a grin in Marci's voice. "You're smarter than you look."

Matt taps his red-tipped cane against his toe pointedly. "Pity I can't say the same about you. Good night." He's out the door before Foggy can do anything. Like fall to his knees before Matt in gratitude or order him to stand in the corner and not move while Foggy telephones his Ma to beg for his Grampy's wedding ring.

He stares at the half-closed door, the light from the corridor making a slice of pie on the worn carpet, and laughs a little giddily. He may have gotten married hours ago, but maybe, possibly, now he might actually have a husband.

A gold t-strap sandal hovers into his line of vision, and he jumps. Marci's twisted around the sofa, pin-up style, her long leg gracefully extended. "Ah!" Foggy yelps, and she laughs and rights herself, bringing her foot back to a safer altitude.

"So that was Matt Murdock, huh?"

"Yeah," Foggy sighs. He'd like to say it was a beleaguered one, but he just sounds swoony.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Am I...sorry? About something?"

Foggy collapses onto the sofa with her, and she runs her fingers through his hair. "No, I don't think you are. Don't be," he says, leaning into the touch. It's incredibly late and he'd like to curl up with someone. "You've really done me a huge favour."

She wrinkles her nose at the big sappy grin on his face. "Ew."

***

On his way to the studio the next morning, Foggy feels like his feet only touch the ground out of consideration to the people sharing the sidewalk. After he'd sent Marci on her way, he'd stood in his apartment, unable to make up his mind if he should walk out the front door and find Matt, or walk into his bedroom and go to sleep.

In the end, he realized that even though he knew that Matt lived in the building across the road from him, he didn't know which apartment, and shouting Matt's name at the closed windows in the dead of night would not endear him to anyone at all.

He'd taken special care this morning when dressing, his hair swept in a perfect wave from his temples and his shave extra-close. He'd even bought a buttonhole from one of the girls with trays and he wafted a subtle scent of lilac.

The vast majority of his previous experience with sweeping people off their feet is in the form of well-rehearsed choreography, but when he sees Matt, he's going to give his best impromptu effort. "Can I tell you how happy I am that you're not divorcing me?" he'll say, and if he's charming enough, maybe Matt'll let Foggy kiss him, like two married people are allowed to do.

"It's a beautiful morning, Lydia, isn't it?" he greets the receptionist at the studio.

"Yes, Mr. Nelson," Lydia says, and her eyes dart to Matt's studio door, which is firmly shut.

Foggy smiles. He must have been the most obvious of all of Matt's admirers, and now that he's walking on air, of course she's guessed why. "When Mr. Murdock takes a break, will you let him know I'm here and I'll have lunch for him?" he says over his shoulder, on his way to his own studio.

Lydia clears her throat. "Mr. Murdock didn't come in this morning."

Foggy stills. "I beg your pardon?"

"He telephoned very early and cancelled his room booking."

Foggy's heart starts thudding "For today?"

"Indefinitely."

"What?" Foggy shouts, then holds up a hand in apology. The poor girl hasn't done anything wrong. He rubs his face, embarrassed at what he's going to ask but not at all able to stop himself. "Did he...have a message for me?"

Lydia bites her lip. "No, but he left one for Ms. Stahl. I told him she doesn't rehearse here anymore, but he seemed sure she'd be here to collect it."

Foggy straightens his tie and and tugs on his cuffs. In the mirror behind Lydia, he looks perfectly put together and stage-ready. He smiles, because he's a ballroom dancer and that's part of the job. "Thank you, Lydia" he says smoothly. "If you need me, I'll be in my studio."

"Yes, Mr. Nelson."

As he closes the studio door behind him, he's reflected back a thousand times in the mirrors and each of himself looks pitiful. He should go find Matt and ask if they were divorcing or married or something in between. He should. He'd be well within in his rights to demand to know.

But what if Matt says divorce?

Foggy switches on the gramophone and puts on the music for a show he has coming up. He has work to do.

In the evening, he looks up at an apartment building, trying to guess which window might be the right one. Winter is fast crawling out of the river and over the island and he bunches his coat high around his throat.

Suddenly, there's a gritty sound of a window opening. "Murdock left," a woman calls. She leans her elbows on the windowsill and looks down at him challengingly. A cigarette in a holder is clenched in her teeth.

"Who are you?" Foggy calls back.

"Jones."

Foggy blinks. "Jessica Jones? You worked with Martha Graham! You're phenomenal! I saw you at the Klaw Theatre."

"You and eight hundred other people, Foggy Nelson. Easy, twinkletoes, I know who you are, I get the Times," she says drily. "And the gossip rags. And for about ten minutes last week, Murdock actually looked pleased with the world. Was that was your doing?"

Foggy smiles, despite himself. "Maybe. I bought him pancakes a few times. And a corsage."

"Uh huh." Jones smokes down at him, unimpressed.

"And I married him."

That gets her attention. "Really?"

"I can show you the certificate. Do you know where Matt went?"

"I do."

Foggy waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. "Do you care to tell me?"

"California."

Foggy's heart falls into his shoes, but he has to know. "When will he be back?"

"Now that's a mystery I didn't want to solve, except for the fact that Matt made it my problem when he said 'when there's something to come back for.' I don't suppose you know what that means."

Not really. There's a faint chance Matt's waiting for a sign that Foggy wants to stay married, but more likely he just means an appearance in divorce court.

***

When Foggy was young, he used to dance in a too-tight jacket and a too-high collar, so that if he slouched, he'd strangle himself. Over the years, that rigid uprightness matured into an effortless, structured elegance--the Times Arts Critic's words, not his--but today, the studio mirrors reflect a man who looks like he's dancing with a broomstick shoved up the back of his shirt.

He grits his teeth, closes his eyes to the mirrors, and raises his arms around a partner that isn't there.

 _Slow slow quick quick_. Come on, Nelson.

Matt's feet soft-shoeing under a diner table. Dewdrops in his dark hair. The way his smile just beamed…

Foggy trips.

"You dance like a sack of spuds being pushed around by a three-legged horse," someone says from the door.

"At least I still dance," Foggy says, eyes still shut.

Karen snorts. "I heard you got married. To that nudist."

 _Quick quick slow_ …. "Yeah."

"Con...gratulations?"

"Congratulate me if it lasts," Foggy says, less bitterly than he feels. What a farce. He's a divorcé-to-be, and even though that was the plan all along, it hurts more than he thought it would. Why else would Matt leave, if not to go where news of their marriage hasn't reached. Where he could escape.

Foggy sighs and turns, trying to achieve that sweet, intimate arch of the spine that Matt does without thinking. When Matt does it, it looks involuntary and unselfconscious, like he's being made love to exactly how he likes it, lost in the moment. All of Foggy's reflections--they're trying too hard and it's an appalling forgery of pleasure.

"Did Danny give you a spot in his revue?"

Foggy sighs and nods. It was a favour to him; he still hasn't found a partner, but Danny just waved a hand and told him to do a solo piece. The fact that Foggy hasn't danced solo since he was fourteen and in junior tap apparently isn't a problem. "I'm trying something new. Tap and ballroom together." Karen twitches her head at the gramophone, which is playing something passionate and throbbing. Something Matt would dance to. Foggy laughs a little. "With some spice on top."

Karen takes a seat on the bench and adjusts her skirt around her crossed legs. "Alright, show me what you've got," she orders, reaching for the gramophone needle and starting the record again.

After a few minutes, Karen's voice interrupts him: "what do you keep reaching for, Foggy?"

Foggy mops his brow and catches her eye in the mirror. "Sorry?"

Karen shucks her coat and walks to the centre of the studio floor. She dances a perfect imitation of Foggy's choreography, and that's when sees it, the way her hands reach for someone who isn't there, the way her chest pushes out into the emptiness around her as if her heart is being tugged by a string.

Foggy's worried he looks thunderstruck. Has he been dancing his heartache so obviously? Karen's expression goes pitying. "Oh Foggy," she sighs.

"It would never have worked out," he says quietly.

Karen reaches out to straighten his tie. "Maybe. But you're not the one standing in the way of finding out. Come on, there were some shoe-shine boys on the corner and I'll just bet Frank's spending our dinner dosh getting one from each of them. How's about some old friends take you out, dancing man?"

"Delmonico's?"

"In your dreams."

After pastrami sandwiches and egg creams at the deli down the block, Frank steers them towards a picture house and springs for three tickets. Foggy barely glances at the poster; accepts popcorn from Karen unthinkingly, and nearly jumps out of his seat when Matt's face comes on the big screen.

On his left and right, Karen and Frank's hands shackle his arms. "It's just a newsreel. You'll be fine."

Foggy recognizes parts of Matt's choreo; he caught glimpses of it in the studio. And by caught glimpses of, he means stared openly at while helping himself to his ninth or tenth glass of water at the receptionist's desk.

The music is something modern and discordantly intense that Foggy's too square to recognize, but Matt is puff-chested and confrontational as he dances among the clashes and clangs--his strong limbs thrown out wide, his fingers straining to touch the edges of the universe.

"That's just not fair," Foggy whispers.

"Matt Murdock, the beloved danseur of New York City," the newsreel announcer says in an aggressive transatlantic honk, "shares with us some of his secrets for a life lived artistically and the spiritual source of his breathtaking choreography."

"His what?" Frank mumbles.

"Dancing is living," Matt says. The newsreel intercuts the interview with a series of close-up shots of his lovely face: smiling openly, wiping sweat from his forehead, frowning at a dodgy step, grimacing as he stretches. "I dance everything I feel. My pain, my happiness. I dance my hunger and my bruises and falling in love," he laughs, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I don't know how people who don't dance figure out what they're feeling."

"When people say I'm too physical, too strenuous, I take it as a compliment, because that means that there's no emotion I can't communicate through my body. I dance what I'm feeling--I can't do anything else, I'm a slave to it--and the last thing I want is my body being a physical limitation to what I'm trying to say through dance."

"Yeesh," Karen says into her palm, and Foggy can't disagree. He and Karen, they've spent twelve-hour days in the rehearsal studio in the past. Karen's danced until blood has splotched the satin of her dainty shoes. They've performed choreo they learned the day before and made it look like they've been working on it for months. They're not lazy dancers. But neither of them can hold a candle to Matt's intensity.

"When this interviewer asked what emotion Mr. Murdock was currently dancing--was it his bruises or perhaps his lovelife, the blind artist was played his cards close to his chest but it was clear that there was something he wasn't saying."

On the screen, Matt ducks his head and smiles. "Wouldn't that be lovely? Right now, I'm dancing...a certain feeling. But I don't know what anyone else would call it. Whatever it is, it takes up my whole day--when I wake up, when I dance, when I walk home, I don't know what it is but I'm thinking about it. You tell me, is that love?”

"'Wouldn't that be lovely,' the beloved Matt Murdock says, but a straightforward denial was not on Mr. Murdock's lips. Rumours have been reported in New York's popular papers that tell of a courtship, perhaps even a secret marriage, could they be true? Mr. Murdock had this to say."

"Absolutely not. At no point have those papers printed anything true."

On either side of Foggy, Karen and Frank make twin noises of disgust.

***

He must look confused after (he doesn't remember anything of the film that came after Matt's newsreel) because Frank and Karen force him into another deli and put an ice-cream sundae and a hip flask of whiskey in front of him. "You alright there, Nelson?" Frank says in a low burr, pushing the ice-cream a little closer.

Foggy beams. "That was my husband."

Karen pulls a face. "Who didn't acknowledge you in any way."

Foggy waves a hand. "He probably made that newsreel weeks ago, when we still thought we could brazen our way through it. I know that I have no idea what's going on in his head, and I don't even care if he's going to divorce me. He owes me a dance."

"He ran away to the other side of the country!"

Foggy crosses his arms. "I'm going to dance with him, Karen. Somehow."

Karen throws up her hands as he skips to the telephone booth, winding the crank frantically. "Danny? I know it's late but I've had an idea and I need to see you. There's this newsreel--I need you to get me a copy, can you--Yeah, yeah I'll owe you my first born. Thanks, Danny, you're a real friend, I knew I could count on--hello? Hello?"

When he turns back to his table, Frank's digging a spoon into his ice-cream and Karen's upending the flask down her throat.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm sorry sir," the theatre usher puts a gentle hand on Matt's elbow, "the performance has already begun. You'll have to wait for a break."

Matt draws himself up, and snarls a little at the way his bowtie tugs. He hates the feeling, it's like a dog-collar. Similarly, the seams of his dress shirt strangle at his underarms and across his chest like some sort of animal harness. But he's in the lobby of one of the finest theatres in the greatest city of the arts in the world, so he's in his tuxedo, and even has an opera cloak on top, but that doesn't seem to matter to this squeaking boy. "Do you know who I am, young man?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Murdock, I do."

"Then open the damn door."

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to wait for the break. That's also what I told Mr. Gable when he was late to your performance earlier this year," the boy says firmly. Matt blinks. He hadn't known Clark Gable had come to one of his shows. Matt shakes his head. This isn't a show biz star throwing a strop, he's here to do an unpleasant job and if he's made to wait he may lose his nerve entirely.

"You don't understand, I'm delivering something important," Matt insists.

"You have some nerve showing up here," a woman's hard voice says from behind him. Matt turns and sweeps off his top hat. The figure on the stairs smells of French perfume laid over the dust of Central Park, and swishes like chiffon, though her steps say sensible, sturdy shoes.

"I have the nerve to show up everywhere. You have me at a disadvantage, Ms…"

"Page. Karen Page, and I've heard all about you."

"Then you know why I'm here." He reaches into his jacket and shows her the corner of an envelope. Ms. Page snorts. "I tried to send him the papers through the proper channels. He dodged them all."

"Is there a problem down here?" Oh, that's a big voice, and a big man, moving far more at ease in his suit that Matt ever could. "Hey, buddy, that's my friend on the stage next, could you show a bit of respect--oh _wow,_ you're Matt Murdock!"

Matt blinks at the way the man's voice goes high, and holds out his hand. "Yes, how do you do?"

"Frank Castle. I'm…" he drops his voice, "a big fan of yours." Ms. Page snorts again, but it's affectionate. "Are you having trouble getting in? Foggy got us a box. You should join us."

"I'm not here to watch--obviously," Matt says with as much disdain he can get away with for someone he's just met.

"I'd give it a chance anyway. Wouldn't you say so, Karen?" The way he leans on the words makes Matt's eyes narrow.

Ms. Page grinds her teeth, and Matt wonders if she's as steel-spined as they say, hard enough to give a blind man the old 23 skiddoo. "Fine," she bites out.

Mr. Castle gives up his seat in the box, which leaves Matt pressed shoulder to shoulder with Ms. Page. "Might I impose on you for the occasional description?"

"Yes," she says shortly.

On the stage, Danny Rand takes his place behind a crackling microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is an honour and a privilege to present to you a new piece from a very good friend of mine, please welcome to the stage Foggy Nelson."

Matt blinks again. "He's not partnered with Marci Stahl?" he whispers to Karen.

"Marci the Rockette? Not that I'd heard," she whispers back. "I was surprised too. It's the first time I've seen him perform solo."

When the music swells, Matt feels it like blood-red silk swishing over his skin. It's primal and vital, a heartbeat made into melody.

That's when Matt hears the taps from Foggy's shoes. Slow at first--Matt might almost say uncertain, but he knows Foggy would never put half-formed or half-practiced choreo in front of an audience--and then gaining speed and rhythm. It's not showy Broadway style of tap, the stuff of kicklines and showtunes. It's some new made-up, mixed-up thing with an ever-changing beat. A bit of waltz, a bit of tango, classic tap, ballet leaps (he can tell the stage goes silent but the audience gasps, followed by the crash of Foggy's shoes as he lands).

Foggy's dance steps come closer to Matt and then drift off; he's travelling the length and breadth of the stage, wheeling in circles like he's searching for something. Or someone.

"He leads with his heart now," Ms. Page murmurs, and she sounds proud. "Chest out, shoulders back, just like you. He looks like he's constantly about to leap into the unknown."

"That sounds beautiful," Matt murmurs back.

"It is," Frank says, on Matt's other side.

Suddenly, Foggy freezes in the middle of the stage, panting, trembling through aborted, fractured steps. Whatever he's searching for, he hasn't found it.

"Dancing is living," Matt's recorded voice comes over the speakers, and Matt gasps into his opera gloves. His voice--and it's so strange to hear it like this--blends into the music, like he's just one of the instruments in Danny's orchestra. On stage, Foggy moves like Matt's voice is a physical touch on him, and he can hear Foggy's hands dragging against fabric like he's going to tear his clothing asunder. Matt wants to do it for him. "I dance everything I feel. My pain, my happiness. I dance my hunger and my bruises and falling in love. I dance everything I feel. I dance. Falling in love. Dancing is living."

"Oh my goodness," Matt murmurs, letting the sounds of Foggy's yearning, nakedly honest choreo wash over him.

"He said he was going to dance with you, and if he couldn't have the real you, he'd dance with the sound of you," Frank says.

"What does it look like?" Matt demands.

Ms. Page sighs again. "Like you're up there with him. Like he's in your arms."

Matt's hands ball up into fists in his laps. "Get me back stage, Ms. Page. Please. I've been a fool. I turned down someone who wanted to dance with me, and you've got to help me fix it."

Ms. Page makes an uncertain noise through pressed lips, and then stands and thrusts her hand in Matt's outstretched one. "Come on."

Somewhere along the way, Matt loses his opera cloak, and he doesn't even care--he's running, tripping along as fast as Ms. Page will lead him--and then he's there, in the wings, on the same stage. Matt can feel Foggy's dance steps travelling along the floorboards and into the soles of his feet.

"Hold this," he orders, as he shoves his tuxedo jacket at Mr. Castle. He whips off his tie and lays that on top, then pops his shirt studs and rolls up his sleeves. "He's not in tails, is he? I don't want to look underdressed."

"You're going out there?" Ms. Page demands.

"Loose shirt and a scarf, you'll be fine," Mr. Castle supplies, and Matt nods his thanks.

Matt makes for the stage, but someone grabs him by the arm. "Are you mad? I'm not letting you _interrupt_ a performance! I don't care if you're famous or sham-married to him."

Matt shakes the hand off, and squeezes her fingers in his. "Ms. Page, I'm going to dance with my husband. Let me."

"Ex-husband," she shoots back, so Matt reaches into the jacket draped over Mr. Castle's arm, retrieves the envelope with the divorce papers inside, and rips it in half before orienting himself in the wings (the fact that Foggy chose a stage Matt's familiar with--well that just feels like kismet) and walking out onstage.

The audience gasps.

Foggy's steps don't falter. They wouldn't; he's a professional who could push through a performance if the stage caught fire. But when the choreo takes him around and he catches sight of Matt, he all but trips.

"Matt!"

Matt walks forward, instinctively finding the beat, and spreads his arms. "Is that offer of a dance still open?"

Foggy makes a sound like a laugh and a sob together, and then Matt's got strong arms around him, tugging him to the centre of the stage and they're whirling, the rhythm of their steps finding each other without effort.

Foggy leads like a dream, and Matt gives himself over entirely, as trusting as a man in love. The music keeps changing, the beats switching from tap to waltz to some fiery modernist ballet music and back again. But they're dancing together, more in sync than ever before.

For so long, partnered dancing meant pliancy and a lack of control to Matt, but with his arms around Foggy, it feels like sharing a secret of attraction returned. He runs his hands all over Foggy, partially for a guide on the steps, partially because he wants to touch. And instead of objecting, Foggy chuckles into his ear and returns the touch confidently, pulling their bodies together in a way that is not even the slightest bit gentlemanly.

"Pivot on four," Foggy mutters, but Matt can hear the smile.

"Don't dip me."

"You shouldn't have come back if you didn't want to be dipped," Foggy says happily, and Matt laughs.

Foggy spins Matt for the length of the stage, and when the music crescendos, they hit the beat like they're kicking down a door and Matt bends backwards over Foggy's arm so far his glasses tumble off his face and onto the boards.

There's a beat of surprised silence, then an audience of eight hundred people leap to their feet and whistle and shout their applause.

Foggy lets Matt up and snags his glasses from the ground. "Too much dip, sorry about that," he says over the thunderous applause. When he sheepishly tries to pop the glasses back on Matt's nose, Matt loops one arm around Foggy's neck and the other around his waist, and dips _him_ for all he's worth.

"This is going to be an equal-dipping marriage, Foggy. I hope you won't mind."

Foggy laughs, reaches up with both arms and pulls Matt down into a kiss.

Distantly, out of the corner of Matt's ear, the audience goes _bananas_.


End file.
